You Are Not Special
by Morgana Deryn
Summary: There was nothing at all special about her, and yet he'd stood up and been a decent man for the first time in decades in her defense. Adam goes out for a quiet drink and meets a woman who is remarkably unremarkable.


**I just binged my way through the first and sadly only season of Forever. I don't usually do one-shots, but this scene popped into my head and would not for the life of me go away, so here it is for your viewing pleasure. I don't know, right now it's a one-shot, I may play a little bit more on it a little later if there is enough interest. I would enjoy playing with the characters of Forever, particularly Adam, who I think very much got the shaft in terms of his exit from the plot. A two-thousand year old man - and an empty syringe is all it takes?!**

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The bar was not his usual choice for an evening, but occasionally he liked to simply be out among people. Despite being naturally separated from them in an insurmountable way – he was immortal, they were not – he still found them entertaining to watch sometimes. He wondered if the gods – back when there was still more than one per religion – felt like this looking down on earth, watching the lives of their pet creations.

The nicest brandy that the place had to offer sat in front of him. He absently twisted the glass between his fingers as he watched from under the brim of his hat, half-concealed behind a thick oak beam that supported the ceiling added to the 'rustic' look of the place. Not that anything in New York City was really rustic these days. That was two or three centuries in the past. He idly drifted back through the years, when New York City wasn't even close to being the most impressive city in the colonies.

He had watched as the couple at one end of the bar made awkward small-talk, the girl's fingers white around the stem of the glass of wine that she guzzled like it was water. His diagnosis? First date, probably either set up by friend or online. The three girls in the corner were growing increasingly tipsy as they carried on their own unnecessarily loud party, finding more ridiculous reasons to order rounds of shots as the night wore on. At the bar was a girl in flannel, cowboy boots, and a braid that had been nursing a glass of bourbon for the past hour while staring dully ahead, clearly lost in thought. She was clearly here for a quiet night out, judging by the annoyed looks she shot the drunk girls every so often. The bartender, a woman in a low-cut top, was aggressively hitting on two tourists who were leaning against the bar with their cheap beers and clearly lapping up the attention. She was most likely in it for tips.

The door opened and he turned to his newest object of entertainment. Coming in from the cold was a man with the carefully-groomed look of someone trying to land a bedmate for the evening. He looked around and zeroed in on the only unattended girl, the brunette with the bourbon. His eyes locked on her keys sitting next to her at the bar. The man quickly whipped out his phone and he tilted his head, watching in vague interest as the man fiddled with the contraption, smiling smugly before he ran a hand through his hair and approached the brunette.

"Hey," he greeted her with a bright smile. He nodded to her keys. "I couldn't help but notice the keychain." On her key ring was a silver mustang symbol backed by the red white and blue bars. "Do you own the one sitting outside?"

He'd seen that car coming in. It was a '69 if he wasn't mistaken, a light blue with a light interior and convertible top. A very nice car, even he was somewhat taken by the classic. He'd always had an appreciation for muscle cars, though he was far from a gear head.

The brunette looked at him and it was clear from the momentary downturn of her lips and the wrinkle of her nose that she wasn't pleased at having her quiet night interrupted. But nevertheless she plastered on a polite smile and said, "Yes, it is. You like it?" She was from the south, going by her accent, which explained the fact that her cowboy boots were functional and not fashionable.

"Oh, yeah," the boy said eagerly, leaning against the bar with a forced ease. "Me myself," he said in a tone that all but dripped confidence, "I own a Corvette, but I've got an appreciation for Mustangs too."

The brunette's eyes glowed for a moment with something like mischief. He was certain some sort of trick was about to be played, and for the first time that evening he sat forward in his chair. Taking a sip of his drink, he rested one arm across the top of the table and fixed his full attention on the couple.

"Do you really?" the brunette asked, leaning forwards in obvious interest. She presented her hand coquettishly. "I'm Clem."

"Clem, that's unique!" the guy said, taking her hand. He brought it to his lips and kissed her knuckles, keeping eye contact the entire time. The girl's smile became slightly tense, but she lowered her eyes demurely and shyly pulled her hand back. The guy looked proud of her reaction. "I'm Carter."

"Well, Carter," Clem said leadingly, sliding a little closer to him on her bar stool. "Do you have any pictures of your car? I'd love to see it."

Like he'd been waiting for her to ask, Carter reached into his pocket and whipped out his phone. He smirked in the corner. So that's what the boy had been doing with his phone. He saw the girl at the bar, saw her keychain, connected her to the car outside, and decided to use a shared love of cars to try and chat her up. A reasonable – if somewhat cliched – plan.

Clem took the phone from him and looked at the picture on the screen. Her eyes widened at the car and she looked up at Carter eagerly. "I don't know a whole lot about Corvettes, but that looks like an '83, right?"

Carter grinned and hooked the bar stool next to her with his foot, dragging it closer to hers and sitting himself down. He got the bartender's attention and gestured to himself and the girl next to him.

"Yeah, you know more than you give yourself credit for," he said, giving her an approving once-over. Clem blushed and giggled at that.

"Thanks. But aren't '83's supposed to be pretty hard to come by?" Her expression was innocent and intrigued and Carter was lapping it up.

"Yeah, but I know a guy who knows a guy," he said casually.

"Huh, that's how I got my baby," Clem mused. "A guy who knew a guy. Such a shame about that sinkhole that opened up under the National Corvette Museum least year," she commented. "I hear they can't even find the two millionth car that went in."

Carter coughed, clearly lost. "Yeah, real shame." Frankly, he was appalled that the boy didn't know what she was talking about. The whole world knew within hours of the sinkhole opening up under the museum.

"Tell me, I've heard Corvettes are kind of like potato chips – can't have just one. And you can obviously afford it." She mirrored the appreciative once-over he gave her and Carter latched onto her assumption that he had money.

"Yeah, well, I have a few more," he admitted with false modesty. "Only three though."

"How about," Clem said leadingly, and slid her drink closer to his, "we play a game. I'll try and guess the year. I guess right, you drink, I guess wrong, I drink."

Carter looked delighted by the turn of events and he sat in his chair, now genuinely amused and waiting for the trap to spring.

"If you've got an '83 then you appreciate the older models," Clem considered, staring at Carter with her full attention. "But nothing too flashy, so… '34?"

"Nope," Carter said smugly.

Clem sipped, and continued to throw out years. Carter took great delight in making her down sips before finally deciding to allow her to guess right.

"Okay, if it's not any of those, then it's gotta be a '48!" Clem said triumphantly, and Carter laughed, taking a long gulp f his beer.

"You caught me," he said guiltily.

"Ooh!" Clem squealed, and turned to face him more fully. "I finally got it! I told you, I know more about Mustangs than Corvettes. But I do think it's so sweet, how they're called Corvettes after the kind of French tank the founder served on in World War 1."

He nearly laughed in his little corner as he watched Clem toss out random bits of trivia and Carter latch onto them like a lifeline. He took a long gulp of his beer somewhat uncomfortably and nodded.

"Yeah, great story, great story. Come on, guess the next year," he urged her, nodding encouragingly.

Like a switch had just been flipped, Clem's face fell into a look of deep annoyance and displeasure. Her eyes were icy as she regarded him coldly.

"No, I don't think I will, because you've been lying since you walked up to me. And it was kind of funny at first, but now it's getting annoying."

Carter faltered, clearly wrong-footed, but tried to salvage his one night stand. He laughed awkwardly and reached out to put his hand over hers. "Come on, what are you talking about? I'm not lying to you baby…"

She wrenched her hand back and wrinkled her nose in distaste. "Do _not_ call me _baby_ , for the love of _god_ … Let me lay it out for you, exactly how you screwed this up," she said firmly, and by now most of the bar was watching. Even the girls in the corner had taken a break from celebrating 'Rachel's C on her management ethics test' and were watching with drunken awe as Carter shrank against the bar.

"First off, there are no '83 Corvettes. That was the year that during testing so many little defects and bugs were found that they couldn't fix them all before the launch year was passed, so they scrapped the couple they'd made. That was the price of trying to completely overhaul the Corvette over the course of a single year with technology that they hadn't worked with before. The only '83 Corvette still in existence is in the National Corvette Museum in Bowling Green and they aren't letting it go any time soon."

Carter looked absolutely mortified and tried to slide past her towards the door. Clem grabbed his arm and held him in place, now looking delightedly smug as she drew him up short, turning on her barstool so that she faced away from the bar and crossing one leg over the other easily.

"No, don't run off, you should be more well-informed in case you're going to try this schtick again!" she said cheerfully. "They did manage to get all eight of the cars out that fell in the sinkhole, but it was the millionth and the million and a half cars that went in. There's no two millionth car on display.

"And that little game I pulled where you thought you'd just won the lottery and I was about to get myself drunk? Yeah, you picked a really crappy year to decide to 'own' because the first Corvette wasn't made until 1953, and there were only a couple hundred made. The chances of a guy in this place having the money to buy one? Not very good.

"And finally, the name Corvette. Didn't come _at all_ from a kind of French tank, and the guy who started Corvettes wasn't in the first World War. A corvette is a French naval vessel known for being fast and light, that was in common use starting from around the middle of the 17th century. Oh, and by the way…" she scoffed. "Bad choice approaching a Mustang owner bragging about a Corvette. Traditionally speaking, Corvette owners look down on Mustangs, though considering the fact that you can't drive a Corvette in the winter I stick by the judgement that they're full of _crap._

Clem cleared her throat and let his arm go, leaning back smugly against the bar. "Now, I hope you've learned a lesson, honey. If you're going to try and chat up a girl in a bar, be my guest, seriously. But you might want to tell the truth because one, and I can't believe your momma didn't teach you this, but lying is wrong. And two, the girl you're giving lines to about owning a Corvette _might just be_ from Bowling Green, where they actually _make_ Corvettes. And she _might_ have grown up going to field trips at the Corvette Museum and she _might_ have spent her summers working there during high school and college. Just a thought," she finished mildly, and started to turn back to the bar.

Carter's face was a mask of humiliated rage. He seized her arm, his finger digging hard in to the flannel. Clem whipped around, mouth opening to say something, but she never got the chance. He was on his feet a moving, glass of brandy abandoned. She might have been hard on the boy, but she had a very good point. That, and you did not lay hands on a woman like that if you had any sort of decency in your body. And you certainly did not, as Carter was in the process of doing, drag her half way off her barstool and growl in her face, "Listen, bitch-"

His hand came down on the boy's wrist, squeezing hard enough to feel the familiar sensation of bones grinding together. His fingertips dug into the boy's pressure point and set Carter howling in pain.

"The lady has already taught you one lesson tonight," he said coldly, pinning the boy with the full-force of his two-millennia stare. "Do I need to teach you another?"

Carter looked at him fearfully. "Who the hell asked you, man?"

"No one had to ask. It's common decency," he replied shortly, wrenching the boy's hand away from Clem's arm and tossing it away. "Now go."

Carter went, the door banging behind him. From the girls in the corner there was a round of drunken applause and hollering and the bartender was beaming in delight as she approached Clem with a third glass of bourbon.

"On the house," she said proudly as she set the glass down in front of her. "That was seriously the best thing I've seen in months."

"Thanks and welcome," Clem replied with a lazy smile to the bartender, but her eyes hadn't wavered from him. She gave him a curious look, the sort of up-and-down look of appreciation that she'd faked giving Carter. Now, he suspected, it was genuine, and he was surprised. In looks, if not in time, he appeared a decade older than her, and that was being somewhat generous to himself. She had to be in her mid-twenties.

"Thanks to you too," she said slowly, a slow but grateful smile spreading across her face. "My mouth runs away from me sometimes, and maybe I was enjoying myself a little too much. Thanks for keeping that from backfiring on me."

He paused, licking his lips. It occurred to him that he had, once again, been the decent man. It had perhaps been a century or more since he did something so entirely selfless. He had seen her being grabbed like that had reacted like he would have when he was… perhaps not still mortal, who knew if he had ever been such a thing or if he had been born the way he was. At least before his first death. He found himself feeling oddly unsettled by the gesture. Manners, politesse, the things he'd practiced and honed over centuries sliding through backgrounds and watching the world spin, leaped to his tongue.

"It was my pleasure."

Clem tilted her head, still giving him that slow, inviting smile. "Pleasure or not, I still owe you for it. Let me buy you a drink?" she asked, hooking the pointed toe of her boot under the rung of the bar stool Carter had abandoned and sliding it a little in his direction.

"I… accept," he replied. Well, had the gods not occasionally descended to meddle in the affairs of mortals? He set himself down and gave the bartender his order. She nodded and hustled off for the brandy and he adjusted himself on the seat so that he angled towards her slightly. She spun around so that she mirrored his position. The toe of her boot just brushed the calf of his trousers, not even enough for him to feel it on his skin, just enough for him to be aware. He wondered if it was intentional or not. With this one, he wasn't sure.

"So," Clem asked him curiously. "What do I call you?"

He had had so many names over the years, he had to actually think to remember the one he'd been born with. He wondered what kind of look he'd receive if he gave it to her. But that wasn't the name he was using these days, so he answered simply, "Adam."

"Clem," she replied in kind and offered her hand. He took it and shook. She had a strong handshake, firm, and though her hands were soft there was a faint scar across the back of her thumb and one along the top of her wrist that showed she wasn't afraid of using her hands. "It's short for Clementine, but I'll never forgive my parents for that, so just Clem. Tell me, Adam honey," she drawled, raising her glass to her lips and sipping daintily. "What brings you to the Big Apple?"

He licked his lips. "Ah, research."

She arched an eyebrow, looking intrigued. "Research? Hm, what sort?"

"The history of New York City in general," he replied easily. Lying was second nature after so long. "I am a historian."

"Really?" Clem perked up, shifting so that she faced him just a little more fully. Now he could definitely feel the brush of her foot. "I've always enjoyed history," she flushed slightly, "as you may or may not have gathered from that little show I just put on."

"Yes, I did," he replied drily. "And what brings you to New York? So far from home?"

She briefly looked confused. "How did-" Her expression cleared. "Ah, I forgot. I normally try to hide the accent at work. Doesn't exactly make people think highly of me. I work in translation, actually. I'm an interpreter for a couple companies around the city." She shrugged and smiled. "I needed a place where there were more than a handful of international companies."

"And are you enjoying the city?" he asked, platitudes now rolling off his tongue easily. He lifted his brandy to his lips and took a drink, examining her carefully. Her face fell, her shoulders slumped, she looked absolutely downtrodden.

"To be perfectly frank I hate it," she admitted. She leaned forwards and murmured to him, "Between you and me, when did people stop enjoying trees and grass? This whole damn city is nothing but steel and glass."

And interesting question, and he actually had an answer. He supposed he could have offered it to see what she would say. The march of progress had changed the times. No longer were the farmers and herders the ones who kept everyone alive and fed. Now it was major companies in their forts of, as she had said, glass and steel. He supposed it was with the birth of skyscrapers that many people stopped being impressed by what nature offered and became more intrigued by what mankind could create. He had lived long enough to have already passed that and come back to favoring nature. No matter how strong man built its walls, nature was still stronger.

"Some time none living still remember," he replied grimly, staring across the wall, finding himself lost in the glinting of bottles under the lights. He was surprised when a small, warm hand slid over his. He looked down. She had lovely hands, her nails well-manicured and painted a faint silvery color, her fingers long and elegant. He stared from her hands to her face in question.

"Adam, you alright? You looked like you'd gone miles away, and wherever you ended up wasn't exactly pleasant." She smiled at him faintly. "Anything you'd like to talk about?"

Adam smirked faintly. "Nothing for tonight. It's a rather long story."

He expected an awkward silence, for Clem to slowly withdraw her hand and tuck it safely in her lap. What he did not expect was for her to pat the back of his hand comfortingly and quip, "My favorite kind," as she brought her glass to her mouth. There was a faintly pink lipstick stain on the edge. Her hand retreated, but not with any hint of discomfort. "And you seem like one of the more interesting people I've met since coming to New York, if you don't mind my saying."

Adam gave a small huff of a laugh at that. "Would you like to know something surprising?" he asked her slowly, and she nodded.

"Always."

There was quite literally nothing special about this woman. She was no great beauty and while she was witty, he had seen wittier, cleverer, more intelligent. He'd met southerners and interpreters. He'd spoken with people who preferred natural beauty to manmade and who found themselves uncomfortable in large cities. A smart mouth was nothing to brag about. And yet there was something… and perhaps the fact that he couldn't pick out a single remarkable thing and yet still couldn't quite shake that she… nothing. He'd seen women being lied to and picked up in bars before, and seen then brutally turn men down. Yet something about her made him stand up and be a decent man again.

"I find myself thinking something similar of you."


End file.
